


The Deviance of Two English Gentlemen

by colorofmymind



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, M/M, Secrets, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorofmymind/pseuds/colorofmymind
Summary: Set post Game of Shadows. When Sherlock Holmes is given a case by none other than Mrs. Watson, he has no idea that he cannot fix the unsolvable for the couple. Intimate truths are exposed in the process, leaving all three irrevocably changed.





	1. A Most Troubling Domestic

The signees of Spring and her benefactors were much appreciative of this day. The breeze was finally light and welcome, the sun did not deceive in her promise of warmth, and the creatures of Providence could once again roam the streets and fields without difficulty, a stride in their steps that did not exist a mere fortnight ago. Of course, with the synergy of ardour and envy, succeeded by keyed up tempers, it was the season of renewed energy towards crime of all kinds. If Sherlock Holmes were to leave his flat sometime within the next two days, he would most assuredly be met with the dastardly, delicious aftermath of criminal underworld antics. The case he was to be met with though was unlike any he would have anticipated.    
  
Nanny had ceased in providing him breakfasts in the morning as she had grown accustomed to his years’ absence when he was presumed dead after his nearly fatal confrontation with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. Still, Holmes considered himself fortunate that she had decided not to let out the rooms of 221B to anyone else in that time. He liked to imagine that his memory had haunted the flat from any prospective renters. It was more likely that she had felt his experiments had irrevocably made the place unlivable for anyone else, which suited his purposes just as well. In the time since his return, they had stopped seeing each other altogether except for the instances in which the woman needed to collect the rent or occasionally checked to see he was still alive. Her tread on the steps and tentative opening of the door in this instance did not seem to indicate either of those options however.    
  
“A visitor is here to see you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson announced without a greeting.    
  
Holmes stood facing the window. The scuttling of children playing in the street could faintly be heard through the glass though he preferred their prattling to Mrs. Hudson’s.    
  
“I don’t receive visitors, only clients and Watson, so which one is it?”    
  
“Both, I’m afraid.”    
  
Thoroughly startled, Holmes spun around ungracefully. Mrs. Watson stood in the doorframe of 221B, and he realized in that exact moment she had never once stepped foot in this flat. The woman had barely put up her hair, her face did not glow with her usual choice of cosmetics, and the azure dress she wore was plain, one she normally kept in the back of her armoire. Lines shown clearly under her eyes spoke of little sleep, and her mouth was set in an expression of grim unhappiness.    
  
“You are punishing yourself,” Holmes declared, though he was still attempting to parse out the reason.    
  
Mrs. Watson stood resolute. They’d engaged in battle for far too many years now to allow some remark like that crack through her facade.    
  
“I came here for your help, Mr. Holmes, and if you won’t give it to me I’ll be forced to go to Scotland Yard.”    
  
Mrs. Hudson looked positively alarmed at the always reserved Mrs. Watson.   
  
All Holmes had to do was bark “Out, Nanny!” and the flustered woman fled faster out of his rooms and past Mrs. Watson than an abominable horse free-ranging in the countryside. He had the almost irresistible urge to pick up his pipe and light it, knowing it would offend the woman’s sensibilities. Instead, Holmes’ temper simmered in an inexplicable instance at seeing the distress evident on her features, and so he treated her with the politeness customary for a client.    
  
“Would you care to enter my humble abode, madam?”    
  
She obliged him in this regard, stepping forward several paces until reaching the center of the room. Holmes idly picked up the bow to his violin, gesturing towards the client chair.    
  
“I’d prefer to stand, thank you,” she replied primly.    
  
Holmes smirked as he set the bow down. “Is this a consultation or a confrontation?”   
  
There was a sigh of exasperation not heard but felt. “Please, Mr. Holmes, I am well aware we do not see eye to eye on many matters, all excepting one.”   
  
He pointedly avoided her gaze. “I know of none.”   
  
She entreated once more. “My husband and your friend.”

Holmes huffed indignantly. “That is the very matter that divides us, you understand.” 

Mrs. Watson took a sharp inhale of breath, and he admittedly felt a certain delight at trying her patience. Although he already knew of her irritation and exhaustion, he did not expect the woman to begin to weep openly in front of him. 

“Please you have to find him!” She exclaimed desperately. “I’ve no idea where he is or what state he could be in. I’ll never forgive myself if something has happened to him.” 

The distraught woman broke into further hysterics, clasping her face between her hands, muffling the strangled noises she emitted with terrible frequency. Holmes gently guided her into the client chair, an action to which she gave little protest, and offered her a handkerchief stained with the least number of chemical burns. Upon taking a seat in his own armchair, he rested his chin upon steepled fingers. Panic and alarm first gripped him once he processed her claim—how long had Watson been gone, where did he go and was this action voluntary, was he in any sort of danger, or was it...Heaven forbid, too late to take action. This performance of hers wouldn’t do, not if something had befallen his dear Watson.

“Mrs. Watson, take a moment to collect yourself. I’ll never be able to find your husband through that nonsensical blubbering if that’s all you have to provide me,” he snapped. His hands trembled, and so he sought the comfort of tobacco since he could not sink into the bliss of cocaine in that moment. 

She sobered a little at his clipped and irritated tone, her cries subsiding into petite sniffles. At one time, when he was more vindictive, Holmes would have likely been most amused at the pathetic picture. 

Her voice still wobbled over her words. “He left yesterday evening, and there’s been no word from him since.” 

“What time?” He asked as he lit his pipe. 

“Around eight thirty.” 

“Did he give a reason for his...sudden departure? I am certain his going was not planned.” Holmes discerned there had been a reason, but the veracity of his suspicions was crucial to his work, or at least that was the most convenient excuse. 

“He was...upset,” she finally confessed after a few seconds too long. 

“As I suspected. Trouble in paradise, Mrs. Watson? These domestics do tend to sort themselves out from what I’m told,” he said derisively as he took a pull from the pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the room. 

She shook her head vehemently. “You don’t understand, and I am sure that smoking your pipe is not helping to clear your mind either.” 

Holmes was stuck between laughing and ordering the woman out of his rooms. Since his return, he never knew how to behave around the woman Watson chose. Instead he idly turned the pipe over in his hands and emptied its contents onto the floor, dragging his foot against it for good measure. 

“I thought—”

Brusquely, he cut her off, though this was not the sensible thing to do. “What?” 

“I thought he might have...come here, to Baker Street.” 

Holmes stiffened in his chair. Of course, that’s what Watson should have done, what Holmes would have wanted him to do. It came as a surprise to him that Mrs. Watson would concur.

“As you can see, madam, he has not retreated from domesticity within these rooms.” 

“But you’ll find him nonetheless,” she insisted, certain already.

“I’ve already a few ideas where the old boy has gotten off to,” he reassured her as he disposed of his tattered dressing gown in favor of a jacket. “Watson is a great many things but being creative while inebriated is not one of them.” 

Mrs. Watson rebutted him firmly. “John is not a drunk.” 

“But any man can indulge himself too much when  _ upset _ ,” he contested, using her words. “I hope for both your sakes’ he has warned you he’s a reckless gambler when he drinks. Do you have his cheque book? 

The woman looked down in lieu of a response. 

“I see,” he said, unimpressed. The first time Watson had willingly lost his portion of the rent to complete strangers around a table, Holmes had begun hiding the man’s money (Watson had agreed begrudgingly when provided the clear evidence that this was the only way to ensure his half of the rent was paid) and would distribute it when he knew Watson would not blow it on the lure of dice and cards. At the very least, Watson was sensible enough not to bet on the horses. 

“A man’s money is not supposed to be his wife’s business,” she replied in a resigned manner. 

“How utterly absurd.” With that, Holmes leapt from his chair and started in a rush towards his door, calling out behind him, “I’ll tell him that myself!” 


	2. The Vagrant Doctor

There was really no worse place to wake up than a prison yard with no cheque book and no idea how you got there, Watson was realizing very quickly. He’d woken up with a massive ache pounding in his head, the leftovers of a ruthless night of drinking and deserved hangover. Among the ruffians in the yard, he was the only one with a vest on his person, and yet somehow the whereabouts of his shoes remained evasive to him. They were the nice leather ones Mary had gotten him that past Christmas, so he’d made quite a fuss with no supplied answer from any of the other lads before quitting altogether when the guard threatened to shut him up through any means necessary. 

He hadn’t told Mary where he was going when he left, he hardly knew himself. Just away, out of that suffocating house, the bleakness of a life without macabre, a lure he could never entirely resist much as he tried to convince himself (and those around him) otherwise. However, life with Mary had been content up until that day. Until she had ventured the subject he’d never even spared a thought, and the idea of perpetual domesticity came crashing down around them. 

His musings were interrupted by the distracting rattling of the gate, slightly ringing in his ears, and the man who stepped through them pompously, as though he’d never been a tenant of this den of din. He extended his hand to Watson to take. 

“Come, old boy,” Holmes murmured, gazing at him up and down with his unique, characteristic analyzing look. Surely gears were whirring behind those brown orbs, tallying any number of observations. 

Wordlessly, Watson accepted the proffered hand, and they walked out of the prison yard together hand in hand. When Watson caught the prison guard looking at the pair of them, he snatched his hand away from Holmes defensively. An imperceptible look passed over his friend’s face, and then it was gone. 

“Your cheque book,” Holmes said as he withdrew it from his pocket without looking at Watson. “I was fortunate enough not only to trace your footsteps from your tour of London’s finer spirits but to find this in the good-willing care of a bartender at The Lamb and Flag.” 

“Thank you.” 

Watson pulled it deftly from Holmes’ fingers and only just began to search for a pen in his pockets when Holmes waved a hand dismissively. 

“No need, I’ve paid your bail.” 

Watson stuttered over his words. “Holmes, I appreciate all you have done, but you needn’t have—”

“But I have, so we  _ needn’t  _ have a row over it, Watson,” Holmes scoffed as he walked away at a steady pace. 

By the time Watson caught up with his friend as best he could in just his socks, Holmes was already flagging down a hansom. It was unclear whether or not he was invited to join, especially when Holmes was in a mood like this. The carriage pulled up to the side of the road, and his friend sharply opened the door and swept inside while Watson stood on the kerb. He was fixed to shut the door for Holmes, but before he could Holmes took his hand and pulled him in, shutting the door after him. 

Holmes barked out to the driver, “221 Baker Street.” 

The driver gave a noise of assent, and they began to drive along the busy, bustling roads of London in the midday. 

“How did you know where I was?” Watson asked after a silence had settled too uncomfortably. 

“You would like my whole train of deductive reasoning? It was all quite simple,” Holmes replied somewhat facetiously. 

Watson sighed in a way that could only be described as exasperated fondness. “I more meant how did you know I’d been...out.” 

His friend’s lips quirked upwards in a smirk, meaning Holmes was pleased at knowing something Watson didn’t. “My client informed me.” 

His own voice turned incredulous. “Your client?” 

“Yes. Mrs. Watson. Or perhaps is it to be Miss Marston formerly known as Mrs. Watson?” 

Watson leveled him enough of a glare that even Holmes had the decency to look admonished.

“I…” 

A sigh escaped him as he held his head in hands, not even glancing over at the other man. “What, Holmes?” 

“I know—in the past, I disapproved of yours and Mary’s union—” 

“If you’re going to gloat, I’m getting out right now.”

“I was the best man at your wedding, and you think I’m gloating?” Holmes snapped back, genuinely sounding insulted. “Marriages and partnerships cannot be successful without bumps along the way. Perhaps this row you and your wife have had can only lead to greater stability in your future.” 

Perhaps it was the desperation of the situation for himself or that despite the utter frivolity of the matter, Sherlock Holmes still deemed it worthy of his attentions and care, but Watson found himself laughing at his friend in the tight space of the hansom. He started to double over in his hysteria, his knees brushing Holmes’, but he was steadied by the other man straightaway. 

“Watson, what has gotten into you?” Holmes asked in such a manner that it appeared he might be horrified at the spectacle in front of his eyes. 

“Sherlock Holmes, caring about the success of my marriage. I never thought I’d see the day,” Watson managed to say as he withdrew his hands from his face, wanting to see Holmes’ reaction. “So what  _ do  _ you think happened? Or do you already know?” 

Holmes sat very quietly on the seat across from him, surveying Watson as though he were a problem to solve, a subject to study under his microscope. The intensity of the gaze was almost too much to bear. 

“I worry for you, Watson.”

The unexpected confession threw him off, sobering his mood immediately. 

“Holmes—” 

The carriage came to a stop, and Holmes rushed out just as swiftly as he had entered, paying the driver and stepping into the flat. Watson followed after him dutifully up the seventeen steps to the rooms they’d once shared. A mess as always, the flat never seemed to change no matter the different mad experiments Holmes conducted. Papers littered the entire floor of the sitting room, beakers and bottles dominated every table. A line was hung up the width of the room with various bits of stained scrap metal strung up like clothes on a laundry line. 

Holmes cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, and Watson shifted his eyes from the rooms to the man himself. “Mrs. Hudson has finished airing out your old room, should you require it for tonight.” 

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, I think I might turn in early.” 

The walk to his former section of the flat was longer than he had remembered or perhaps it just felt that way. He went to lean on his cane, but upon realizing he’d left it at the house, he gripped the door handle for support instead. It might just break under the strain, he thought idly to himself. 

“You should have come here last night,” Holmes said from the base of the stairs. In his hand was the missing cane, and at that moment he could find no explanation for why Holmes had it, only that of course he did. 

Watson gratefully accepted the gift. 

“I know,” he murmured. 

After bidding goodnight to Holmes, he shut the door behind him and gracelessly fell on top of soft sheets curiously scented with pipe tobacco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and comments to let me know what you think! The next chapter will be posted next week, so stay tuned. (Also this is not Brit-picked but I did my best lmao).


	3. The Unyielding Interim

The next two weeks passed in such an odd succession that Holmes began to wonder whether he was indulging too much in the comfort of his seven percent solution. After that first night, Watson had not come down for many hours, not until late afternoon, all dressed in clothes appropriated from Holmes’ wardrobe, though neither of them addressed the subject. He had given a curt thanks and goodbye before departing. 

The next time Watson deigned it worthy of his time to visit, Holmes had just finished conducting his experiment on the potency of various chloroform formulas. When Watson burst into his rooms, unannounced, he scolded Holmes for not leaving the flat in a span of time which had lasted four days apparently. In a fit of frustration, Watson left in search of food, insisting Holmes was going to “lose half a stone at this rate” if he continued in his totally reasonable, reclusive behaviours. Later, they chatted over dinner about the day’s newspaper, Holmes’ findings in the last seventy-two hours of intense dedication to the differences between trichloromethane and ether while Watson contributed an anecdote here or there about an unruly patient in the clinic. 

They did not talk about Mary. They also did not speak of Watson’s domestic, precipitating him to storm off and drown his sorrows in cheap ale. Holmes had suspicions, however, even if he didn’t voice them. 

One possibility was infidelity. “Three continents Watson” would imply to a simpleton that he was dissatisfied in marriage, but Holmes knew his Watson better. A man as loyal as he, who followed Holmes into the thoroughfare of the European criminal underworld with revolver in hand and no questions asked, would not be a husband who would lie with another woman. Especially not when Watson was clearly enamored by his Mary’s charms and said wife was understandably in love with Watson, a phenomenon Holmes could not explain but inherently knew was truth. 

The second situation was problems with money, hypothetically. For some unknown reason, Watson had adopted a rather Draconian ideal of finances and women’s place within that (being nonexistent) much to Holmes’ chagrin, particularly as he knew undoubtedly Mrs. Watson would manage transactions far better than that gambling boy. But for such a violent reaction to occur those six nights ago, when Holmes had repeatedly criticized Watson’s handling of his funds in the past, this hypothetical seemed, just as the previous one, highly unlikely.

The third scenario Holmes could not feasibly wrap his head around without feeling prone and ill inside. Simply put, the consummation of marriage...was known to have its difficulties. The desired product of a match between man and wife as desired by a Christian God would only solidify the reality of Watson’s world apart from Holmes’ own isolated one, never again to amalgamate together but at short, infrequent intervals. If this were really the case though, some kind of disagreement had brewed between the Watsons, interrupting idyllic sentiment leftover from honeymoon bliss. The baseness of sex could very well have that effect on a standard English gentleman and lady. 

Watson’s eyes had been upon him for some time, he could tell. He met his friend’s gaze head-on, finding concern and something else indescribable mingled in between. Upon reflection, he should make a study of Watson’s eyes, if nothing else than for his private records. 

“You haven’t spoken in two hours,” Watson remarked casually. 

Holmes blinked rapidly, readjusting to the settings. Seated in his chair, tea gone cold. Disposed of his waistcoat, Watson slouched in what was once his designated chair, brown suspenders rolling off his shoulders slowly but surely, his top button undone. Thoroughly distracting. Holmes sniffed the air. 

“Have you been smoking?” He inquired, recognizing the scent as that of a Cuban cigar circa 1889, approximately. 

“Yes, I thought it might make you more alert. I fear it may have made you fall deeper into that stupor of yours you just came out of,” Watson admitted as his fingers idly tapped against the cigar resting in the ashtray on the table. “What has addled your brain so?” 

“Watson, you know my methods. My periods of introspection provide clarity to my work. My thoughts are in perfect working order.” 

“Mhmm,” he hummed back. After straightening his braces, Watson began to loop his arms through his coat previously draped across the back of his chair. “Perhaps I should leave you to your thoughts, in that case.” 

“Back home again?” Holmes mused.

Watson, as ever, corrected him. “To Mary.” 

Perhaps the lovers’ quarrel was not as serious as he supposed at all. Nonetheless, he felt he had to offer: “My door is always open.” 

An affirming smile answered him with a quality of sadness to it, the only thing preceding Watson’s familiar tread on Baker Street.

Another week was to be endured before Watson’s presence graced him once again. In this particular instance, Watson seemed more at ease. He suggested to Holmes that they go for a stroll in the city. Watson always liked it when Holmes would make and share observations of passersbys, one of their favourite activities to engage in from the earliest point in their friendship. If Holmes himself was in worse spirits he would have refused such a triviality, but knowing it might help his friend, he acquiesced cordially to the offer, fortunate enough to still spend time with the man as he was.

There was nothing out of the ordinary at first. An oversized clerk bumbled down Manchester Street obviously having taken too late a lunch break; an older American couple conversed loudly about the spectacles and filth of London to distract from the all too personal topic of the wife’s dying father; a paperboy shouted the newest headlines, limping as he did so due to a factory accident which likely cracked most of the bones in his left foot that never healed properly. Watson smiled along to most of these descriptions but frowned at the last, almost bent on offering his services to the boy, but by Holmes’ observations the accident had occurred years ago and no doctor’s attention would help him now. 

At last, they reached Hyde Park, a perfect spot for observation of both animals and nature alike. As it was a Sunday, many families were out and about, relieved to send their children to attend to their own amusements. Their shrill cries and laughter was certainly no symphony to Holmes, but Watson appeared slightly perturbed, glancing at his fob-watch for the time and requesting that perhaps they roam somewhere else. Holmes himself was growing tired of this charade his friend was putting on and scoffed loudly. 

“Really, you could just tell me that you prefer the company of your wife to my own, and we’d be done with it,” he ground out, kicking his one boot against the pavement as he did so. 

“What?” Watson had the audacity to appear flummoxed. His attempts at treating Holmes with decency were driving the detective mad. 

“I know you’re inventing excuses to be around me now that you’re married and yet still feel obligated to maintain our partner—pardon me, friendship,” explained Holmes, in a manner not unlike when he told Lestrade off for one of his idiotic theories. “But you’re bored because there are no cases for me to amuse you with, so you’re regretting the whole outing. I’d prefer that you just be honest with me instead of relying on me to deduce it for the both of us.” 

He refused to look Watson in the eye after his statement and proceeded down the footpath without his friend in tow. It thus surprised him as he was about to turn out of the park when running footfalls made their distinct approach. Watson’s all too familiar ragged breaths were there behind Holmes, on his neck, and then he was being spun around by his shoulders, Watson having a firm grip on both his arms and a dazzling intensity in his gaze.

“For once Holmes you have no idea what you’re driving at, but my problems with Mary actually have nothing to do with you this time. I can’t explain. It wouldn’t be right to you or Mary—”

“Sirs!” The voice of a young lady, no older than in her twenties with a crying babe in her arms. “Please, if you’ve anything to spare good sirs, my child’s life be saved. You’re honorable gentlemen, fathers? Think of the poor children, gentlemen.” 

Damn her timing, just as he was getting something out of Watson. Though much as Watson’s readers of  _ The Strand _ might have insisted otherwise, he was not heartless. 

“3 shillings, madam,” he said as he withdrew the change from his pocket into her grateful outstretched hand, pins and pricks visible on her fingertips. A factory seamstress then, paid a pittance for her work. 

She issued great thanks, politely scurrying away in the opposite direction from whence they came. He likely would have mused more on her upbringing, physicality and motivations too, had Watson not suddenly fallen out of consciousness into his arms, helpless as a babe. 


	4. One Confession of Dr. John H. Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I am so sorry this is a day late. The chapter has been finished for weeks actually, but this weekend was a little crazy for me in terms of getting to a computer and posting this. Many thanks to my family and Ray_Writes for such an awesome weekend and bday celebration.

The wet starchiness on his forehead was the first thing he registered, though his mind felt hazy still. Only from his neck up was he exposed from a cocoon of sheets and soft, wool blankets. Although the curtains were drawn and the darkness in the room seemed to envelop him and all his senses, something of the surroundings told him he was at Baker Street. 

Placing the rag on the nightstand next to the bed, Watson pulled the sheets off of himself and shuffled to a sitting position. It was then he felt his feet bare against the wood floor, and he was wearing only his trousers and shirtsleeves; someone must have divested him of his jacket and vest in his sleep. 

He didn’t remember falling asleep, however. In fact, he could have sworn he was in Hyde Park with Holmes...and so he had been, he could recall clearer now as his mind caught up with him. Before he had panicked, thoughts racing, and all color and movement blurred before his eyes. He’d been so out of sorts these past weeks; he wasn’t sure what to expect of himself anymore. 

But Holmes didn’t need to know the reason for his fainting spell, couldn’t really. The man would never let him live it down if he ever found out. 

He would claim he was right all along about everything, how Watson’s union to Mary was always ill-fated and that leaving Baker Street was the worst mistake he’d ever made in his life. Watson would call Holmes a bastard, argue he still loved Mary when he wasn’t even certain if he truly could anymore, and perhaps lose not only his wife but his greatest friend again, by his own choice. No, Watson couldn’t allow that. He would have to sneak out while Holmes slept, explain at some later point that what happened in the park was a symptom of overwork and exhaustion, and they could all carry on as ever. 

Just as he made for the door, it was opened by none other than the man he wanted so desperately to avoid in that moment. Poised in the doorway, Holmes was dressed just the same as when Watson had last seen him, the only change being that he was adorning his tattered, hideous dressing robe. 

“I heard your footfall from below,” Holmes offered as a clever explanation, meaning to impress as ever. 

Watson rolled his eyes as he deadpanned, “You’ve been outside my door waiting for me to wake up.” 

His friend’s twisted in a peculiar expression that looked as though it was crossed between irritation and pride, and he had to blink several times to assume his intelligent facade once more. “A matter of semantics. May I come in?” 

There was not a second that passed before Holmes marched through the doorway, grasping Watson’s arm along the way, pulling him back towards the bed. The man had the tact enough to release him before seating himself cross-legged on the mattress. 

“Why don’t you sit?” 

“I should be going, Holmes.” 

“No, I don’t think you should,” muttered Holmes darkly. His eyes snapped to Watson’s face with deliberate and accusing focus. “You’ve been running from me ever since this began, and you must admit that nothing of your situation has improved from it.” 

His breath caught in his chest. “How much do you know of it?” 

“Practically nothing. I am a genius, but you know my methods, Watson. As such, you’ve given me precious little data,” the detective admitted with a curious smirk. “Much as it pains me, I understand your hesitance to come to me about this...problem. You fear the weight of my judgment.” 

“I fear nothing from you,” Watson snapped back, though there was not as much bite in it as he intended.

Holmes spoke with renewed insistence. “Then tell me everything, and I shall help you in whatever way I can.” 

Something about the man was hypnotic. There was an irresistible draw to him, an appeal after all these years Watson could not precisely define except that it was dangerous just as it was powerful. His figure, draped in that infernal faded red robe, resembled Mephistopheles offering Faustus the key to his happiness and ultimate destruction. He was damnable. He was wonderful too. Watson had a choice, even though he well knew which he would choose. 

As he seated himself next to Holmes, it was as if a stone plunged in his stomach with the weight of this decision. 

“You’re going to regret you ever asked,” he intoned, casting out a final attempt to extract himself from this conversation. 

“Watson, you know a warning like that only serves to intrigue me more.” 

He took a deep breath and began to tell his story.

“Everything was fine between Mary and me before all this happened,” he started as a disclaimer, expecting Holmes to huff indignantly or debate that point. To his surprise, his friend was silent and listening. He took that as a sign to continue. 

“One day, Mary was telling me about her friend from church, Elizabeth. She and her husband had just had a boy. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I told her to pass along our congratulations to the family since she prefers to do that. The week after, she...asked me how I felt about family.  _ Our _ family.” 

Next to him, Holmes made a sort of tutting noise. “I see.” 

“Yes, well...that’s it then. You know everything,” Watson sighed, whether out of relief or anxiety he wasn’t sure. 

Perhaps telling Holmes was the right option. 

“I’m afraid we’ve barely yet begun to probe this case.”

Or his instincts not to tell his friend were, of course, absolutely founded. 

“It’s not a case! This is my life!” He practically shouted, flustered and peeved all at once. 

“Why can’t this be a case  _ about _ your life?!” 

His anger slightly simmered solely in spite of Holmes’ own, and he walked over to the dresser where his vest, jacket and overcoat were hung. 

“I knew I couldn’t expect you to understand,” he muttered bitterly as he thoughtlessly shrugged into his jacket. 

And then Holmes was there, faster than an antelope, standing behind the ajar dresser door. 

“How am I supposed to understand when you refuse to let me examine this?” 

“I don’t want you to examine this,” he said, enunciating his words with the firm slam of the dresser door. He turned to face Holmes. “I don’t need a detective. I need a friend.” 

“What does a friend do that’s so different from a detective?” 

“A friend listens. He gives advice. He cares,” Watson listed off the top of his head. 

His friend blinked for several seconds, processing this. “That’s exactly what I do on any case. However,” he continued even as Watson scoffed, “I can see we will simply have to disagree on that particular detail. If you seek my counsel as a friend, I shall give it.” 

Any man would see this as a pitiable attempt, but, knowing Holmes as long as he had, he knew that the man was genuinely trying his best to appease. 

“I’m just not sure what to do,” he confessed. It was probably the most honest he’d been about the situation. 

“Neither am I,” Holmes replied. “I don’t say this very often, old boy, but I don’t think I fully understand your predicament.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, let’s start with the facts. You love your wife.” 

“Yes.” 

“And she desires children.” 

“I think I’ve made that much obvious.” 

“Yes, you have, but your feelings on the matter have yet to be illuminated to me. What makes you so scared of your wife’s wishes for a family?” 

The question, so direct, threw Watson. Ever since Mary brought up the idea of having children, an uneasiness had stewed uncomfortably in his gut; it was almost indefinable, so he had chosen not to interpret it. He didn’t like the idea, and that was that. What more was to be gained for finding the reason why? If the way Holmes was staring at him and the unpleasant tension that had brewed in his marriage suggested anything, it meant that he’d only been sparing his pride by avoiding this. 

“I just...never imagined that for myself. I’ve always thought of children in regards to other people. I knew when I was in Afghanistan that many of the men there had children waiting for them back home, and I was doing my best to send them in one piece to their loved ones. In those mo—,” his voice became choked and he didn’t sound like himself.

He coughed to clear his throat and push the well of emotions that had risen up down back where they belonged. “Excuse me. In those moments I thought I was about to die, I didn’t think of how I would possibly never have to chance to raise children of my own. I only mourned the fact I was so young and hadn’t found love.

I considered myself so lucky when I survived and eventually found Mary. She was so kind and was everything I could love in a woman. She never mentioned wanting children when I courted her, so I never thought of it. I know the rules I have to abide by as a man, what’s expected, and I have no real reason not to do this or want this, for her, to make her happy. But will we still be...happy, after it’s all said and done? A child requires so much. I’ve heard and seen so many die in others’ practices; there’s no telling what could happen to our own child. With how much that can go wrong, how can anyone want it? Why can’t any two people just love each other and live off of that for the rest of their days?” 

At the end of his ramble, Watson gazed at Holmes who reciprocated with a bright, burning look. It was almost as if he seemed to understand what Watson had just said, even though Watson could barely make any sense of it himself. 

“Why indeed?” his friend mused quietly, almost as if he hadn’t noticed he spoken aloud. With a tilt of his head and a cheshire grin, the transparency once bled into his features was gone, replaced with a mask. “You look like you could use something strong. Come join me downstairs for some brandy.” 

He left the room without time for a reply, and Watson stood there, still dumbstruck about what had just transpired. Watson just articulated everything, all the intrusive thoughts that had gnawed at him over the weeks in the backs of carriages, on sofas, occasionally while lying on his back wide awake next to a sleeping Mary. In previous conversations, mostly with his wife, he’d only been able to discuss Mary’s desires openly. How rational were his own? Did he really expect them to be able to live in perpetual honeymoon bliss? Family was the next natural step for any English couple. While there was no law requiring it, the backlash he and Mary would receive from the community should they not bear any children would be enormous. 

There was no point deliberating it right now. Holmes was downstairs, and he’d given little away during Watson’s tirade. He had to know what he thought. 


	5. A Friend to Last His Whole Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back to posting this story on a regular schedule! If the chapter title sounds familiar at all, it's based on a line from one of my favorite movies "Maurice" from 1987. This is not brit-picked, just so you know, and this chapter is a bit shorter than others. Please leave kudos and comments and let me know what you think!

Holmes, for perhaps the first time in his life, had no idea what to think of the current situation. It was beyond complicated. There was no crime that took place, no definites, only ifs and fluctuating variables and hypotheticals. There was no one to catch or anything he could retrieve. There was only a decision that was yet to be made that now hung like an overcast cloud over the Watsons and, by proxy, himself now. He was certain though that all of what Watson had communicated upstairs was a revelation for the both of them. 

Earlier, Watson had pleaded for advice, but what was there to give? In any other scenario, Holmes would have offhandedly suggested annulment or separation, but this was much too serious for his usual sarcastic contempt for the relationship. Things were not stable. Watson drinking himself into gaol, wandering aimlessly between Baker Street and his home further south, who knew what might happen next unchecked. 

The man in question decided at that moment to descend the stairs, fully-dressed, and Holmes poured them both glasses of brandy, shallowly filled. Watson wordlessly accepted the beverage from Holmes’ hand, downing it all in one go. 

“I never imagined myself as a parent either,” he said before taking a sip of his brandy. 

Watson shot him an unsurprised smirk. “Yes, well you never imagined a life for yourself.” 

“It may astound you, as you are so resolute in your convictions of me, that I have quite thought out my life and what I want to do with it,” Holmes brusquely retorted. “I wanted to become the world’s only and best consulting detective, which I did. In time, when I tire of London, I shall live out my days in the countryside where I shall tend to my apiary.” 

“Apiary?” his friend repeated, bemused. 

“Yes, I have long held a secondary interest in bee-keeping. It seems like it would be a satisfying and yet not overly-stimulating hobby from what I have read of it. That shall not be for another twenty odd years or so if I can avoid it.”

“I suppose you’ll retire to your brother’s estate near Chichester.” 

“Ah Watson, what a keen memory you have! But no, I could not live on his hospitality for so long a period. I do have my sights rather set on somewhere in Sussex at the moment.” 

Watson’s features softened, almost sympathetically. Pity was to follow. “Then you’ll live alone?” 

“Live and die alone. Though that wouldn’t have to be the case if…” 

The doctor persisted. “If? If what?” 

In lieu of a verbal answer, Holmes’ eyes flitted to the gold band snug on Watson’s fourth finger. The color had only minutely faded over the years, but it still stayed on the man’s hand. Watson’s eyes followed. Once Watson tracked the target of his gaze, he subconsciously clasped his hands behind his back. 

“Perhaps you could live in Brighton. I couldn’t tell you much about it since I never ended up going. I spent the whole day chasing around the poor postman, convinced it was you, but you were with Gladstone the entire time, ” Watson mused. 

Holmes smiled wryly at the memory and looked at his companion. It was as if all the immediate tension had dissipated in the room and yet could not completely evaporate. The giggles they may have ordinarily released were caught in their sternums, unable to get out through the self-imposed strain. 

“Speaking of which, I should take the dog out for a walk.” 

Watson retrieved his hat from the stand and made for the doorway. He faltered in his step, however, and Holmes rushed over; he wound his arm around the man’s middle and pushed himself flush against his body so as to not leave any room for Watson to possibly fall. 

Together, they hobbled down the seventeen steps to Baker Street. 

“I should be alright now,” Watson said. 

Holmes reluctantly released him. Meanwhile, the other man stared at some place above Holmes’ head, face screwed up in some emotion that was impossible even for Holmes to discern. 

“Watson?” 

Suddenly, he was embraced, one of Watson’s arms around his chest and the other cupped the right side of his face. He couldn’t imagine the expression he himself was wearing, but there was something primal and mournful in Watson’s own. 

“I’ve behaved remarkably badly. Forgive me. And thank you.” 

With those brief words, Watson pressed a sweet kiss to Holmes’ cheek and fled out the door without another word. 


	6. The Waiting Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter and late again I know. I just tentatively got hired for Another job outside the one I already have, plus school work and extracurriculars dominate the rest of my time. I will try to keep updating this every other week; hopefully once the semester's over updates will be coming in more regularly. Let me know what you think!

Mary Watson had had a trying month, and even she saw it was reasonable to admit that at this point. Six hours her husband had been out that day without a word from him, and that was hardly a record time anymore. In her distress, Mary took to reading as she had always done as a little girl. Jane Austen’s  _ Pride and Prejudice _ was her pick of the evening, an endearing tale which lent credence to her opinion that only women could write compelling romances. 

It was not Elizabeth Bennet’s and Mr. Darcy’s story that engaged her, however. Rather, she delighted in the love affair of Jane and Mr. Bingley. 

In a way, she could relate to Jane. A beautiful, kind woman was all Mary ever wanted to be. She felt even more drawn to Jane as she read of how Bingley took notice of her, dutifully cared for her in the time of her ailment. His charm and love for this girl suffused the pages. 

Bingley reminded Mary so much of her John. Though Mary had not been as blind as Jane. She had known almost immediately that John had an interest in her, and he had been so earnest in his admiration. He devoted hours to walks around the city with her along with an overseeing chaperone, buying her trinkets and gifts to brighten her days even on his small army pension and the salary he made at the practice. She fondly remembered their first meeting, when he helped her into her carriage and introduced himself as _Doctor_ _Watson_. Mary couldn’t have dreamt that she would find such a gentleman to love her, and the day he proposed was one of her happiest. 

In the present, John’s distance from Mary appeared similar to Bingley’s absence in the middle of Austen’s novel. When he would return fully to her, she did not know. 

The evening slowly blackened, and night was upon the sky. A shuffling at the doorstep and a click in the lock signified to her that John was finally home. She set her book aside, having perused nearly all its contents, and went into the hallway in search of her husband. 

“John?” 

“Here dear,” he said as he hung up his coat on the rack. He turned to face her and leaned in to give his customary kiss to her cheek. Lingering there for a brief moment, he chose to instead peck her on the lips before she really registered it. 

“What were you up to?” she inquired lightly as he set about divesting himself of his outerwear. 

“I was out with Holmes. I have to check in on him every now and then. Where’s Gladstone?” 

“It has been some time since I’ve seen Mr. Holmes,” she replied idly, ignoring his query. “I thought perhaps I might owe him some payment for his services in finding you so swiftly, but I’m not sure if he really did.” 

It was at this moment her husband seemed to fully take her in. 

“Mary? What do you mean? I’m right here.” 

“I’m amazed that you are, believe me,” Mary said, the bitterness creeping into her tone. She couldn’t help it. “Do you know how many days and nights I’ve spent alone?” 

John sighed, looking down and dragging a hand down his face. “Mary, I’m sorry—” 

“I don’t need you to apologize. I just want you to talk to me. I have no idea what’s going on in your mind. And I don’t see why...just the thought of having children has terrified you like this,” she sincerely confessed. 

“I…,” he trailed off, looking lost and equally so for words. “I just don’t think it’s meant for me.” 

Her heart melted at his words. 

“Oh John, you would make a great father. Look at how well you’ve done with Gladstone,” she argued, compassion seeping once more into her tone. 

Of course, John always underestimated his talents; it was her duty to restore his faith in himself. 

“He’s a dog, Mary! And under my care, he’s been drugged more times than I can count.” 

Mary persisted, “That was Holmes, not you.” 

“Does it matter? I allowed it to happen,” he responded morosely. 

“What are you saying? You would allow Holmes to hurt our child?” 

“Never! Mary, he wouldn’t,” John rebutted firmly. “He’s not—I just...I’m not thinking right. I need some rest.” 

Her husband trundled up the stairs without looking back, Gladstone forgotten. 

It was clear nothing was being accomplished. John wouldn’t listen to her. So she would have to go to the one man he would hear from. His Darcy. 


	7. Comme Amis, Madame?

It was in a truly spinning, colored daze that Holmes managed to stumble up the stairs to his rooms, not once turning back to the door from where Watson had just departed. If he stole one glance, he thought he might run out into the street after the man, raving like a lunatic. It was better that he review the facts before jumping to conclusions at any rate. 

Although, even solely as a detective, he could not wrap his head around what had transpired. Watson had kissed him. It was a gesture totally unexpected, at least at this point, when their more...amorous relationship had drawn its abrupt conclusion several years ago. 

Of course, it could have been meant platonically. It was, after all, just on the cheek, a kiss much more innocent than previous ones they’d shared. The French were known to exchange kisses  _ comme amis _ . Or perhaps Watson was just attempting to finally recognize their past together, just enough to acknowledge it, and could therefore move forward in his marriage. 

Why would that be necessary, however? Surely after all this time, the old boy had gotten over Holmes. In fact, Holmes would have thought that all of Watson’s romantic feelings expired when he had packed up all things without a word to Holmes, rented out another flat, and had a girl on his arm within a month of leaving. If Watson had ever felt anything for him at all. 

Those words...those parting words troubled his mind still. He turned them over, the three sentences, as though they were separate pages in a book. They danced in front of his eyes, and he burned them into his memory before they flared and faded in favor of another distraction. As if another distraction could successfully steer him away from Watson. 

_ I’ve behaved remarkably badly.  _

_ Forgive me. _

_ And thank you. _

None of the parts added up to a cohesive whole, ultimately. Behaved badly to whom? Forgive Watson for what? Thank Holmes for what deed? The whole matter was quite puzzling, and Holmes was beginning to ascertain that Watson either had no idea what he himself meant when he imparted those words or intentionally belied Holmes into investigating them so he would not think too much over the...child conundrum. 

Holmes growled in frustration at it all. Never had a case provided such obstacles in his typical methodology. The personal element involved made it all very difficult to process, categorize in his normal way. With Watson by his side, Holmes had never experienced such clarity in his work, having finally found the pathway to the solutions through all the noise and clutter of the rest of the world. Now that Watson was not at his side but at the centre of this case, it was becoming harder to distinguish fact versus theory. 

It was more difficult than ever; any time Holmes tried to think, his fingers traced the ghost-like touch of Watson’s lips to his cheek in awe and wonder, a feeling he had locked away in the deep recesses of his mind. 

When they had been lovers, Watson had always been gentle. His doctor’s training had controlled how his hands caressed, his abundant care and precision had been merely a luxurious extension of his bedside manner whenever Holmes had hit the ring too hard. Though he doubted that Watson called his patients “ungrateful bastards” as he sewed them back together. It was equally unlikely that he ever finished the job with an impassioned kiss on the lips and a plea to act more carefully. Perhaps if Holmes had followed through on that advice, he would never have awoken to a half-empty bed as he had for the last three years. 

In those years of Watson’s absence, Irene had been particularly special. At first, Holmes had admired nothing more than her brilliant mind, able to keep up with his own, a rarity in a person of any sex. Eventually, even he had found he could appreciate her beauty for what it was: flawless. She had been flippant as the change of the tide, however; and though her antics were amusing, she would gladly leave Holmes penniless and beaten to a pulp if it ensured her own safety. In spite of this, Holmes had been willing to try something with Irene, something more real when he had finally accepted that Watson had deserted him, when she had died. 

And here he was now. Alone. And more bewildered than ever. 

Without warning, the door to the flat opened. Holmes scrambled up from his bed, where he had lain for hours if not days, and rushed to greet the man he’d been waiting for in great anticipation. 

“Watson!” he cried out upon entering the parlor. 

He halted where he stood on the bearskin rug when he realized he had mistaken the identity of his guest.

“I must say Mr. Holmes, I am amazed as ever by your deductive powers,” Mrs. Watson remarked a touch snidely, though not enough to seem outright rude. “Despite all of what John writes, he can never do your talents justice.” 

“Yes, well he struggles with the quantitative details. Your husband is quite...the romantic—with his words,” Holmes replied, his voice slightly shrinking at the end. He coughed deliberately to compensate. 

“I know he is. And I know you hadn’t been expecting to see me again quite so soon,” Mrs. Watson attested. “Truly neither had I. But I must speak with you about my husband.” 

Holmes’ heart plunged into his stomach. Did she know? Had Watson confided his illicit action to his wife out of guilt? Oh Providence above, this could be the undoing of both of them alike. 

“...must you?” 

“It is not easy for me to say this, as I have been married to my John for some time now,” she began. 

Holmes’ breath caught in his chest and could not escape. But the woman, surprisingly, looked at him pleadingly instead of in disgust.

She calmly continued, “But you have known John for nearly twenty years and I only for three. I can tell he has told you of our troubles, maybe more so than he has told me. I must ask for your advice on how to proceed.” 

While she was more collected than her previous visit, the desperation was still very much present. The pads of her fingers were dry with the turning of pages, books, perhaps old letters as well, easily deduced from the tired lingering redness in her eyes that even she could not conceal. Gladstone had clearly seen it fit to comfort her if his hairs clinging to the hem of her dress were any indication. 

He wandered over to his desk, not looking at her now, and rifled through some papers aimlessly in search of a more interesting task to occupy him. 

“Mrs. Watson, I shall make this brief then for both our sakes. I advise you to speak with your husband,” he laid out rather plainly, proceeding to pop a macadamia nut from the bowl on the desk in his mouth. “These are delicious. Would you like one?” 

“No, I have no appetite at present,” she replied with little disguise of her distaste.

He smirked rougely at the thought of his next barb. “Perhaps you should consult a doctor in that case.” 

“You are trying to irritate me, draw me away. Did John tell you to do that?” 

“Watson has tried to instruct me to do many things, and he has yet to be successful in any of his attempts,” he countered dismissively. 

Damn the woman was persistent. He almost wished that Watson hadn’t told him anything of the matter. 

“For your information, I have tried to talk to my husband all in vain. Last night, he chose his bed in favor of discussing anything with me. In every other instance, he has either been with you or in town,” said Mrs. Watson, her frustration and confusion evident in her speech. “I...it’s almost like he is suffering one of those black moods of yours that he described to me.” 

“Hmph! Watson suffering a black mood! I would truly be worried if we ever saw that day,” he said through a mouthful of macadamia nuts. 

Holmes crossed the room, going to face Mrs. Watson for the first time in this conversation. He stood right in front of her, leaving very little personal space between the two of them. Her eyes bulged somewhat in anxiety, and he purposefully tilted his head to one side to illustrate a more disturbing picture for the woman. 

“I was hoping to be left alone to organize my thoughts, but I see that this...issue shall not leave my life unless I clarify it for you.” 

“I would like nothing more than to leave you alone, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted, which almost made him laugh. 

He turned from her, starting to pace toward the window overlooking Baker Street. 

“Your husband, Mrs. Watson, suffers from an affliction that many men possess. He belongs to a crowd of men who desire the companionship of a woman but not her product, the thrill of a romance without its baggage. He is atypical in that he genuinely cares for you unlike most with those desires, but he cannot deviate from what he wants or rather what he does not want,” he explained. He swiveled back to address her. “Have I made myself clear?” 

The woman’s face in that moment was astonishingly unreadable. Then she bit her lower lip, and he knew instantly he had struck a nerve. 

“Do you consider yourself to be one of those men?” She asked, voice quavering. 

“Not in the slightest. I do not desire the company of anyone.” 

“Except for John,” Mrs. Watson rebutted, contemplative in her gaze. “And have you any other friends besides him?” 

“I have found no other worthy as him, no. I dare say I never shall,” he answered honestly. “I feel we are drifting slightly from your initial point of inquiry.” 

“No, no Mr. Holmes, you have provided me with  _ more _ than enough answers to go off of,” she replied, bitterness very obviously sinking into her tone. She stormed out of his rooms without so much as a half-hearted farewell as though he had deeply offended her.

At the very least this time she hadn’t thrown a glass of wine in his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm so very sorry this has taken more than a month to update. I recently got a new job which has very demanding hours and top of school it makes it all the more difficult to find free time to write. As a treat though this chapter is extra long so please enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I've been an avid reader of all things Sherlock Holmes for a while now, but this is my first time writing for any version of the characters, not just for the Downey films. I plan to update this on a weekly basis; I have the first five chapters completely written out, and I am currently working on the sixth so I'm not stringing you guys along lol. I've been working on this idea for several months now so please kudos, comment, let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!


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